


His Saving Grace

by LadyAmalthea



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels, Alternate Universe - Guardian Angels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fallen Angels, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20453258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmalthea/pseuds/LadyAmalthea
Summary: When Hank Anderson lost his beloved son, he had no idea that anyone up above would be looking down at him, let alone have someone sent to keep an eye on him. Connor is a young, determined guardian angel, and becomes concerned for the middle-aged officer more than is allowed. To save him, Connor must make the ultimate sacrifice.





	His Saving Grace

_ Oct 21st, 2035 _

"Hello, Amanda."

In the tranquil garden, Connor stepped across the soft, green grass. His long, white robe billowed around his toes, sleeves dragging alongside them. He gave a gentle smile to the archangel as she turned to greet him.

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" She chimed, unrolling her own sleeves after caressing the roses growing up a lattice archway. Amanda's halo glowed brightly, intricate and golden like the embroidered fibers of her robes. "May I show you something?" 

He nodded, and followed her to the edge of the pond, perfectly calm save for the ripples of the fish that swam there. They knelt down, and Amanda reached in her hand to swirl the water, making a glowing ring and opening a gateway.

"Am I… receiving a new assignment?"

"You have proven to be a very caring guardian, Connor. I have a case for you that may prove more difficult than your previous ones."

Connor beamed at the the underlying praise, that he was trusted and successful enough to look over a new soul in need. 

"A Lieutenant Hank Anderson of Detroit," Amanda started, as the man's face appeared in the water.

He looked… terrible, to say the least. Heavy, dark bags beneath his eyes, otherwise his complexion looked rather pale. A few bandages were on his face, one wrapped around his wrist. Face dropping low, Connor watched as Hank took a sip from a bottle beer, using the heel of his palm to wipe the corner of his eye.

"He has lost someone…"

"Yes," Amanda sighed. "Ten days ago, he lost his son in a car accident. The burial was yesterday."

As he watched and listened, Connor covered his mouth. "He must be devastated."

"Very. We have many…" Amanda sighed, her hand pushing a small wake across the water to reveal more of the scene. 

A few beer bottles were already scattered on the tabletop, and a large bottle of whiskey on the counter behind. "We are concerned, Connor. It seems very likely that this sadness will follow him through his life." 

In the image in the water, Hank finished off the bottle of ale. He pushed it away, letting it smash to the floor as his already low head fell into his hands. Connor watched helplessly as the man's shoulders shook.

"Lieutenant Anderson has saved many lives, and protected many people in his life so far. It would be a sincere sadness to lose him, too." Amanda said, and the sight of Hank faded away.

"Of course," the young angel nodded, both of them standing and Connor giving a small bow. "I won't let you down," he insisted, and his pearly-white wings unfurled. 

The archangel smiled, "I know you won't. Go, offer peace and hope to him."

As Connor closed his eyes, the garden faded away, leaving him surrounded by cascades of soft clouds. His feathers ruffled in the cold breeze of the Earth's troposphere, wings testing their strength against the breeze before letting himself fall backwards.

It was a feeling he had always loved, ever since he was a cherub. Free-falling, feeling the air slowly warm as he dropped closer and closer. Then, with a delicate shift of his weight, his wings caught a draft. Connor swooped in a large arc, dropping closer to Detroit, and 117 Michigan Ave.

When he arrived, peeking in through the window he frowned at the scene unfolding.

Hardly different from what Amanda showed him, but somehow worse being up close.

Connor could now hear him _ . _

"Fucking God," Hank cursed. "Why the fuck wasn't it  _ me _ ?"

The angel held his breath; he was up to the challenge, and it would be fine if he could just avoid getting attached. But… easier said than done.

A couple of barks came from inside, and Connor entered the home as he phased through the window and wall. He already knew the dog's name, Sumo, and not only did the animal hush his barking but he stared at Connor directly. Curiously. 

From the seat beside where he stood, Hank seemed alarmed that his dog suddenly stopped barking, but turned around to look anyway.

His eyes looked right at Connor, but couldn't see him. The lower lids created as he winced, tears still leaking from the edges.

_ Almighty, _ Connor thought, still holding a breath. Those soft, blue eyes were windows into Hank's life, the angel sought deep into those eyes and saw his whole life laid out. 

A mostly simple childhood, several bouts of heartbreak from relationships that didn't last, the thrill of becoming an officer. Deeper even, and more recent were his promotion to lieutenant, his rocky divorce in their son's first year of life, arguments that Hank replayed in his head to find where he went wrong.

There was only so much the man could even be blamed for, as his wife was equally stubborn but much more callous. Both a little older, and by the saint's above, Hank had just turned fifty, and Cole passed away at six.

Connor searched through those six years, looking for the lightness and smiles, and they were all Cole. He found memories of Hank softly reading to the tot before bed, his voice low and calming, like a storm rolling across dry fields. Others of them fishing together, hockey games, Cole’s first day of school.

So much loneliness in those pools of blue… perhaps that was something he could help with?

Angels took pride in the subtle things, small acts that could have easily happened naturally to steer a life in the right direction. But, this one would take a small journey.

From the small house by the canal to a brightly-lit suburban home many miles away, he flew to pay a visit to Hank’s oldest friend, a Jeffery Fowler. A fellow officer, decorated and honorable, sat at home with his wife and family on the quiet night in November. 

It was just a matter of setting things just right, looking for opportunities. The twin girls, young teens, were upstairs giggling and doing each other’s hair. Below, Jeffery sat with his wife and elderly mother playing Scrabble. 

_ Aha! _ Connor smiled to himself, floating closer and sitting in the empty chair to watch. His wife was just finishing a word: “zealous”. A solid 16-point word, plus a double letter score for the “z”, putting her easily in the lead. 

“Your turn, honey,” she teased a wink to her husband, as she sipped a glass of merlot. 

Jeffery rolled his eyes, took a few minutes to stew over his available letters, and made his play. “Okay, how about-” he picked out his letters, putting them down as he spelled it out. “Using your ‘O’, ‘c-t-o-p-u-s’.” 

Only 11 points, but it wasn’t a bad play at all. As the man picked up the bag of wooden tiles to refill his hand, Connor reached his hand inside as well and guided him to specific letters. When they were all spelled out on the little holders before him, ‘HANK’ was spelled out on the far left.

The man sighed, “Hey Jeannine, I’m going to go make a quick call.” He stood, grabbing his phone and kissing the top of her head before ducking into the bathroom.

“You okay, Jeff?”

“Yeah, just wanna check on Anderson,” he explained, and she nodded understandingly.

Since it was only a phone call, Connor felt there was no harm in eavesdropping. The phone rang a few times before Hank picked up.

“Hey Hank,” Jeffery said, hiding the pity in his voice. “Whatcha up to?”

_ “Mmmmm… nothin’. Something up?” _

The friend frowned, “Nah, just checking on you. Looking forward to seeing you back on Monday. Everybody misses you.”

Hank stayed quiet on the other end for a long pause,  _ “Yeah, I uhhh… I miss you guys too. How’s Chen getting on?” _

“Perfect, just like her academy scores,” he smirked. “Hey listen, why don’t we go out for drinks next week if nothing comes in? It’s been a while.”

_ “Sure.”  _ A loud sniff came through the phone’s small speaker.  _ “I’d really like that, Jeff.” _

“Good, great. Well, you know where to find me if you need anything. If you need another week I can-” _“No,”_ the word came out hastily, almost in fear. _“No, I’ll be there. It’s been so long already, I don’t want to get too behind.”_

With little left to do there, Connor started back to Hank’s house as the call ended.

“See ya Monday, Anderson.”

The view inside his charge's house was not much better when he returned. The exhausted man had made it to the bedroom, phone face-down on the end table in a way that mimicked its owner. He was lying on his stomach on one side of the bed, clutching the pillow with shaky hands. 

Connor desperately wanted to do something for him; he would offer his own shoulder to cry on if he could. As if sensing the strange presence again, Sumo appeared in the doorway from the living room. He gave a low  _ wuff _ , glancing the angel’s way for only a moment before pawing at the bed.

Hank was so lucky to have such a caring dog, but it wasn’t the same as having someone there to listen, to reach out.

But, it worked. Hank turned his flushed face, a wobbly smile cracking as he moved to let Sumo jump up onto the bed. And then Connor, feeling rather dumb, realized something.

The sweet, slobbery St. Bernard must know why Cole is gone. He needs comfort, too.

It was so touching, the way Hank nearly switched on the dime, speaking low and assuringly to Sumo. “It’s not the same without him, huh buddy? I know I can’t play as much as him, but, we’ll be okay. Right?” He rubbed the dog’s soft belly, wiping his face and shucked off his clothes right there on the bed. The shirt and jeans were removed and thrown across the room to the laundry basket in the corner. Connor almost looked away out of courtesy, but couldn’t. 

The man’s eyes were closed, so the angel dared to step closer to get a better look. Hank’s broad chest had a large tattoo, the rest of his torso bearing scars and injuries from his life. He reached out toward him, almost without thinking, and then retracted his hand. 

Hank shifted as he got comfortable, Connor stayed absolutely still until he was sure he’d fallen asleep. When he was, he spread his wings and floated up above the bed, getting a good look at the now-resting face. 

He gave a gentle kiss to Hank’s forehead, “May you find peace in your dreams tonight.” With the quiet prayer, and one more glance before leaving, he floated back up to the clouds. He couldn’t always be so hands-on, of course. But this was a special case, and not only because Amanda deemed it so.

Connor wanted to see him live a long and joyous life, mission or not. 

* * *

_ November 6th, 2035 _

Hank's life seemed to have slowed down to a normal routine again, and for better or for worse, he poured himself into work. It made sense, it was something to focus on, kept him out of the house and out of danger from himself.

That didn't mean he wasn't in danger, though. He was a police officer, after all, and his rank meant taking on some cases that were rather worrisome to the angel. Of course someone had to do it, he understood that, but Hank was insistent that he did not need a partner; he would call for backup if he needed it. 

This didn't sit well with his guardian angel. He had to stay hands off, but still do his job to watch over Hank. 

Several of his colleagues, Connor decided, were more helpful than others. Ben Collins, for one, was a portly fellow and made sure Hank remembered to eat. Some of the younger officers would go to him for advice, and it seemed to lift Hank's spirits when he saw that he could make a difference for the new crop of rookies.

Others were not as helpful.

A certain Gavin Reed, recently promoted from being a beat cop, made it a point to do things his own way. Doing things beyond his authority, teasing their newest recruit when the poor kid puked at a crime scene.

Connor hovered near Hank's desk on a brisk autumn afternoon, snapping to attention when Fowler came by with a stapled stack of print-outs.

"Need you at a scene downtown, Eden Club. Got a dead customer and employee in their VIP lounge, the address is at the top."

The lieutenant sighed, "I'm on it, Jeff." He took a few things from his desk, including the keys to the beater car he bought after the accident. 

Connor wasn't a fan of the rumbling engine and rusting frame, but in an effort to save time he climbed in with Hank. The light on the dashboard glowed and spun when the vehicle sputtered to life. 

He started to learn small things about Hank, something different each day. Like the berry-flavored toothpaste that he had bought for Cole but liked it use himself, what kind of beer he liked with takeout pizza, or what kind of music he listened to. 

It turned out he was a man with a wide variety of tastes in that department. While angels were encouraged to enjoy music written with holy inspiration, Connor found that Hank's jazz collection had its own virtue and brilliance.

But the heavy metal, and occasional black metal, that Hank played in the car he did not appreciate in the slightest. It was loud and harsh, sometimes so crude he would cover his ears. What drew people to this sort of thing, he would never understand. 

He was less of a fan when they arrived at their destination. Certainly none of his training involved anything like this: bright pink neon signs on a dark, frankly dismal looking building on the corner of a busy intersection. Police tape was already strung all around, other cars parked out front with their matching, flashing lights.

It was a strip club, and a rather seedy one at that. Connor wondered if he was the first angel to set foot in such a place.

The inside was barely lit, and Connor noticed that even Hank was having a hard time with it as they were brought to a curtained room down a hallway.

Ugh, it reeked in the whole place.

One of the victims in question lay strewn across a leather couch that hugged the far corner of the room. 

"Death caused by respiratory distress, and we found hand marks on the neck," Collins explained.

Connor looked a little closer: the man was married, but something told Connor that this wasn't an isolated visit. He wondered what could have possibly happened. 

"He requested two of the girls, and well…"

Not too far away lay another body; a thin, young woman in a tight dress and heels. She wore heavy makeup, which Connor noticed was streaked from the corners of her eyes.

"So where is the other one?" Hank asked, looking down at the dancer on the floor with a heavy heart.

Ben shrugged, stepping toward the hallway, "We are still trying to find that out."

Something gripped Connor's chest;  _ someone  _ did this, but why? Hank could be left to his own devices for a limited amount of time, and maybe Connor could be some kind of help. 

There was another dancer, and maybe she didn't go too far out of shock. Maybe she knew something. He floated unseen through the musty hallways, across the main floor, toward the fire exit on the opposite side. A few doors marked for employees weren't too far, and he could hear crying from one of them.

He held an ear to the door, curious.

_ "Fuck, I don't know what to do." _

_ "We can't stay here! We have to run, just like we always said we would, get away from this fucking place…" _

_ "But he killed Tracy!! Oh my God, he didn't give it a second thought," _ one if the girls sobbed. 

Peering in, he saw two girls sitting in a dirty dressing room, dressed in similarly revealing outfits. They held hands tightly like they would be ripped apart.

"They won't care what he did, he's  _ dead _ , but they never need to know what you did. You were trying to protect yourself," the brown-haired girl whispered, combing her fingers lovingly through the other's hair. "Let's make a run for it, out the back door."

Connor decided to set a plan in motion, sending that Hank was slowly approaching. In a women's voice, he spoke from the other side of the door, " _ The cops are here."  _

"Oh  _ fuck,"  _ the blue-haired girl wheezed, grabbing her stuff in a rush.

But Connor  _ knew _ Hank, knew him well enough to know it would be all right.

Just as the girls left the room, Hank rounded the corner, and all three met eyes.

"C'mon, Echo, let's go home,"

But Hank raised a hand, "Wait-"

All were frozen, including Connor who held his breath.

Hank breathed a sigh, "There were cameras."

"What?" The crying girl gasped, clutching her things tightly.

"Was it self-defense? With the customer in the-"

"Yes," she said instantly, but her girlfriend deflated in worry. "He killed the other girl, he was going to kill me."

Nodding, the officer scratched his beard. He took a glance behind him, and then back to the dancers. "They'll call, but you won't get arrested once we look at the tapes. Be ready for court, but go home." 

The girls stood motionless, scared as dear caught crossing a road late at night. 

"Go on, I didn't see anything," he said with a nod, turning around.

He acted none-the-wiser as he met back up with Ben; saying the employees had all left. The two dancers made it safely out the back door, crossing behind the building and out of sight of the stationed police officers to the bus stop across the street.

Connor felt peaceful, relieved that no harm came to the innocent, but he could hear the faint fanfare of trumpets.

He was being called back, Amanda was summoning his presence.

He took off from the roof, heading to the clouds until his vision went white. It faded into pale green, the gardens appearing before him. There was a gentle rainfall, an illusion to nourish the similarly, illusionary roses. 

"Over here, Connor."

He heard Amanda call him from across the garden, and his feet carried him across the green. 

"Do you know why we do not meddle too deeply in the affairs of humans?"

Connor knew the answer, but it was too much to say out loud.

"It is not our place to intervene like that. We can guard and protect, but we can  _ not _ appoint ourselves to do more than that. If we get too close, we can be  _ seen _ ." Her voice was stern, bordering in harsh despite the soft expression on her face. 

"I understand, Amanda."

She stepped closer, sighing in disappointment. "You are one of our brightest, Connor. Your compassion and motivation is what makes you a wonderful guardian." 

The ground was solid beneath him, yet he felt as if he stood on the precipice of a precarious ledge. 

"But, like a child, you are naive," she adjusted his robes, fixing how they lay over his shoulders. "Be careful. That is all that I ask."

He agreed quietly, letting the garden fade to the the grey-ish clouds as they rolled into Detroit, sending a downpour to the ground below. 

When he returned to Hank's home, of course the human had arrived back as well. He sat on the couch with a beer and a hand in Sumo's fur, but he was smiling.

And Lord, that smile made it all worth it.

"I did the right thing, right boy?" He asked the dog in earnest, even though he knew no answer would come.

" _ You did, Hank." _ Connor whispered, wishing against the odds that his words would reach. 

* * *

_ August 15, 2037 _

Even with his best efforts, Connor could tell that it wasn't getting much better. 

For one thing, Hank started to isolate himself. If he went out after work, it was usually to a bar. There was a cash-only dive near the precinct, and it was worrisome to watch him walk in, the bartender would greet Hank by his name, and pour a double of whiskey without needing to ask. 

But worse were the nights where he drank at home. 

His record at the DPD had been spotless until he showed up to work still a little sloshed from the night before. Fowler sent him home with a slap on the wrist the first time, but that was months ago. 

Connor had tried his best not to be too invasive: leaving pamphlets for AA on the pavement near where he had parked his car, a business card for a therapist on his desk. He even "misplaced" the bottles of liquor Hank kept at home to deter him, but if it was early enough, Hank would just go out and get another one.

Like tonight. 

The angel hovered closely as Hank walked through the small liquor store a few miles from home. It stung to see him regress, after all of Connor's attempts to help him. Nothing was ever  _ enough _ to leave an impact on Hank.

He may be kind, but he was also stubborn. 

So, Connor followed him around. He indecisively tried to think of more ways to help, with Amanda's voice scolding him in his ear. They returned back to Hank's home, the basketball game was on loud enough that Hank probably could just lay in bed and still hear it, if he wanted to. 

When Sumo wasn't on the couch beside Hank, Connor had taken a liking to spoiling the dog a little in his own way. The St. Bernard was certainly not young, and keeping the mildly overweight dog healthy and happy was part of his objective with helping Hank. So he would rub the dog over, gently relieving the ache of early arthritis. 

He watched over the dog on slow days at the precinct, too. Letting him into the backyard, sneaking him the peanut butter treats that Hank bought at the little pet store near the cemetery where Cole was buried.

Hank hadn't gone there in almost a year, Connor thought idly as he stroked Sumo's fur. 

As the day drifted further away, the living room illuminated by the television, Hank's mind was hazy from the alcohol. He was a little more incoherent than usual, speaking out loud to Sumo, even himself. 

"It’sssssss…” Rough from the whiskey, Hank slurred from the couch. “It’s harrrrrd, ya know? Prentending it’s  _ fine _ , that it’s aaaaaall fine!” His fingers slipped from the rim of the glass, and he groaned in frustration. “God  _ damnit, _ can’t do a fuckin’ thing.”

Connor winced from the harsh language, watching with pitiful discomfort from the armchair. The glass was stared at harshly, and it didn’t suit those sparkling blue eyes. But he tried again, and the tumbler made it to his face, but the amber liquid dribbled from his lips, down his beard and making spots on his shirt.

“Fuck! Fuckity fuck shit fuck!”

It was a wonder that Hank was able to stand, and Connor heaved a sigh as he followed along to the bathroom. Maybe he could nudge the drunken, disheveled man to bed, and keep him from having any more liquor for the night.   


The bathroom was harshly lit from a recently replaced lightbulb, and Hank cursed at that, too. In just under two years since he lost Cole, the weight of the world started to take its toll. Once blond, curling locks were now greying. His hair had grown shaggy, straight and oily from neglecting to shower in several days. His t-shirt, which was now pungent with booze, he lifted over his head, and Connor held his arms out in case Hank’s balance failed. Hank managed to dampen a washcloth, wiping it down his face, and the angel took note of the view before him.

Through the mirror’s reflection, he could see the wings on Hank’s chest, dark lines through the whorls of hair. It was a lovely piece, nicely faded into the skin.

But when Connor raised his gaze, his eyes met with Hank’s.

Disbelief and awe struck his face, his brows twitched for a moment when he blinked and squinted.

“What the-”

Connor held his breath, chest fluttering. When Hank turned around, he was unseen once again.

“Shit, I must be seein’ things.” He leaned forward, elbows on the edge of the sink, staring into the basin. “The f-fuck is wrong with me?” 

His body swayed, and Conor didn’t hesitate to reach out and break his fall. Just as quickly, he brought the man to the floor and stepped away. 

_ What had he done? _

He was in trouble, for starters. Connor went and  _ touched _ him, if only for a moment, to soften his fall to the floor. It wasn’t too far, Hank wouldn’t have died if he collapsed to the tile floor, surely. But a concussion was probably, and that was more than dangerous with Hank being both alone and inebriated. 

Connor didn’t regret it, he could deal with the archangel’s disappointment more easily than risking Hank’s well-being.

The man regained consciousness, eyes unfocused but he was determined to get up. Watching helplessly, Connor stood by as Hank gripped the sink’s countertop, hoisting himself up and ambling across to the bedroom.

Archangel Amanda was thoroughly unhappy with his intervention, for that time and the ones that followed. 

The autumn was brutal with the second anniversary of Cole’s death, and Connor went rigid when Hank took out his revolver on that cold, blustery night. He had found a number of ways the next few weeks to distract Hank; made sounds in the house so the chamber that contained the bullet was skipped each time. 

The angel’s heart clenched when Hank would huff, and say “Better luck next time.”

Winter passed, and with spring, Sumo got sick. No illness was a blessing, but it kept Hank distracted from himself. He gently nursed the dog back to health over the first few months of 2038. The bottle of Black Lamb sat untouched for a few weeks, and while Hank was miserable, Sumo made a full recovery by Easter. They celebrated with a trip to the park, walking along the water with a view of a grand bridge that crossed the river to Belle Isle. 

Connor enjoyed the walk, too. The budding green on the ground was a nice change from the consistently perfect emerald of the grass in Amanda’s garden. The warnings came more frequent, more harsh.

_ “We have rules for a reason, Connor. Your intentions may be good, but you are heading down a difficult path if you continue to do this.” _

Most recently, her voice was dark and fearful.

_ “I’d hate to see my brightest angel fall. Do not disappoint me.” _

It was confusing, and aggravating. Especially when Connor felt himself grow closer to Hank in ways he never could have dreamed.

He had seen the man at his absolute worst, watched over him through alcohol-induced fever dreams and listened to his enraged sobbing as his finger pulled the trigger over and over. Connor was genuinely afraid for Hank, hardly leaving his side. 

The third anniversary of Cole’s death came and went the same way as it had before, and all Connor could do was watch.

* * *

_ November 8th, 2038 _

The front door slammed as Connor phased through it. The day had been awful; the suspect of a homicide was taken in. Clearly, it was self-defense, but the man was so desperate that he kept stabbing at the body. 

“Fuckin’ system is going to chew that guy up and spit him into prison before the month is out,” Hank said to himself, voice frighteningly monotone.

Hank trudged through the house, not bothering to remove his shoes. He knelt down to fill Sumo’s bowl, the dog whimpered as he came up to lick Hank’s face. Something wasn’t right, and Connor felt it too.

The dry food spilled into the dish, and Connor watched in concern as Hank let it overflow. The bag was left out, not even resealed.

_ “What are you doing?” _ Connor asked, almost forgetting that he couldn’t be heard.

Hank walked slowly to the bathroom, flinging open the medicine cabinet and grabbing a handful of bottles. A variety of perscriptions, mostly painkillers. Some expired. “If he had just _stayed quiet_, if I hadn’t heard him in that fuckin’ attic-” He moved back to the kitchen, letting the orange containers drop from his cupped hands. He filled a glass of water. “I just should’ve ignored it. That piece-of-shit junkie probably deserved to die."

The suspect was brought in, emaciated and scarred, and it haunted both of their thoughts. 

Hopelessly, Connor moved in front of his path, trying to block the man from sitting.  _ “Hank, stop it!” _

“No point to any of this shit anymore.”

His hands couldn’t stop Hank from unscrewing the caps, letting the various medications spill onto the table. 

_ “Please… please don’t do this!” _

A few of each were collected meticulously, rattling against each other in Hank’s shaking hand. He stared down at them, sparing a glance to Sumo, before throwing them back.

_ “NO!” _ Connor sobbed, hands going unfelt where they clutched Hank’s shoulders.

Hank gulped down the water, letting it drip from his lips that wobbled into a sad smile. “Be a good boy, Sumo. Won’t you?”

It didn’t take long for a reaction, and Connor fell to his knees as Hank hit the floor. Tears welled in the corner of his eyes, watching Hank curl into himself and clutch his gut.

Something stirred in Connor, something hot. Something like pain.

“No!"

His hands gripped the broad shoulders again, lifting Hank slightly off the floor, and this time Hank felt it. He looked up at Connor, lost and confused. 

“I won’t lose you!”

One hand shifted Hank onto his side again, and the other slid into Hank’s mouth, reaching for his throat. 

Suddenly, something inside of him  _ burned _ . Not just inside, but out. The tips of his wings began to smolder, and he bit his tongue against the pain as his forefinger brushed Hank’s uvula, and the contents of his stomach burst from his lips.

Connor could feel it, though he was sitting on solid ground, his stomach dropped like he was in freefall, and the bangles on his wrists faded into dust. The smoke from behind him filtered through the open window, and he cried out as it spread. 

The man puked and struggled painfully, incoherent but frustratingly agitated. Another bout rose through his throat; Hank struggled to inhale through the raspy coughs. When Connor was sure he hit what he could, he fought through the scalding pain for Hank’s phone in his pocket, dialing quickly and monitoring Hank’s heart rate.

“Help! Please, I need an ambulance! You have to help him!”

The woman on the other end of the call tried to calm him, asked why he sounded so strained.  _ “Sir, what is your current location?” _ _   
_

“One-fiftee- AHHHHH!” He breathed harshly, hearing Sumo bark loudly over the crackling of the smoldering punishment on his back. “One-fifteen Michigan Avenue,  _ please _ , he may be  _ dying _ !”

The dispatcher asked if he was okay, for his name, but he just continued pleading until they confirmed someone was on the way. The moment he hung up he let out another hard scream, the last of the scorched feathers fading into nothing. He felt dizzy from it, his full weight upon the cold floor of the kitchen as the feeling of plunging to the ground finally stopped. 

Everything felt different. The sweat on his brow, the raw, open wounds on his back. The  _ warmth _ of his own body. Of Hank’s hand in his. 

A realization hit him: he couldn’t explain who he was, or why he was there. 

Bleary-eyed, he groaned as he stood, thankful when Sumo approached with caution and stood at his side. He could see in the dog’s eyes that Sumo wanted to offer his help.

Taking steps to the door, his bare feet dragged against the linoleum and wood. When he made it to the front door, he leaned forward and fell against it. He managed to unlock it, panting heavily through a faint smile of his success when sirens announced the ambulance coming down the street.

“Don’t follow me, Sumo. Stay with Hank, for now,” he said, holding a finger to his lips in hopes that Sumo understood that it meant ‘quiet’. 

The bedroom. He needed to hide in the bedroom until the EMT’s came to save Hank, and his own reckoning was likely on its way as well. 

Connor could hear the muffled commotion through the walls, it was barely a few minutes before they took Hank out to the ambulance in the driveway.

Hank would be okay, wouldn't he? 

_ Connor? _

Amanda was calling him, and he felt a chill surround him.

_ I'm very disappointed Connor. _

"But I saved him," he whispered, dazedly.

_ You have fallen, you have failed. _

His back burned painfully as a reminder, and he shook his head. "It was… worth the cost."

_ You may have prevented his death, but you haven't saved him. And now you have lost place here. You understand that, don't you? _

With a whimper, he tried to sit up. "I know, I know." 

His mind went quiet, and he could feel the archangel's watchful eyes leave him; nothing more needed to be said.

It was a slow process to get up, to get out of the closet and open the bedroom door. To his equal surprise and relief, the door was partially blocked by a large, fluffy lump, which moved when he bumped it.

"Sorry, boy," he said, but the sweet hound paid it no mind. Sumo nudged his leg, his head lowered in anticipation of getting some affection. Even at his lowest, a fallen angel who was trapped in a disaster of his own making, was still accepted so readily by this old soul. “You’re a good dog, you know that?”

The only response was a short sniffle, and the dog walked patiently beside him as Connor hobbled painfully to the bathroom across the hall. He flicked on the light, bright and an awful, dirty yellow hue that reflected against the tiles. His robes were disheveled, and in the mirror, he saw that the fabric covering his back was singed from the flames. With his weight against the sink’s edge, he worked the covering off. This new body got cold so quickly, and he shivered from the draft in the house. 

“I don’t suppose Hank has anything I could borrow?” He asked jokingly to Sumo, who watched him was modest curiosity. But clothes could come later, he needed to clean himself up a little.

It would be impossible to reach his back where he needed to, so a shower was the most effective option. It stung terribly, the water rinsing away ashy residue and dried flecks of blood. His blood… it was so odd a feeling. He managed to raise his arm just enough to reach for the area beneath his neck, his fingers finding the jagged scars near his scapulas. They would always be there, with however many years he survived as a mortal. A constant reminder of what he had done.

A reminder that, at least, he tried.

He still didn’t know if Hank had survived the trip to the hospital. Connor pra- he  _ hoped _ he did. It shouldn’t have been too late, though, he can’t imagine how upset Hank will be when he fully realizes that his intentions were spoiled. He certainly won’t appreciate the vagabond young man in his house upon returning.

With a grounding sigh, Connor turned the lukewarm spray of the shower off, patting away the dampness on his skin. Next was clothes.

Sumo kept vigilance as Connor returned to the closet, deciding to check older storage boxes for anything that would fit, since he was much smaller than the home’s owner. There were a few, dusty and untouched for many years. A lot of the contents were just old t-shirts, most of them ratty and worn. Many of them had peeling logos on the front, the names of bands that Connor knew existed but was never allowed to hear the music of.

At the bottom were a few pairs of jeans, all dark-wash and likely too long, but he could make them fit with a belt and folding the ends into cuffs. He stole a pair of briefs from Hank’s dresser, also too large for him but better than nothing, sliding the jeans over his skinny legs.

One of the t-shirts caught his eye, a heathered beige fabric with the emblem for the Detroit Police Academy. It was comfortable and loose over his shoulders and back, and still smelled like the dryer sheets tucked between the folded clothes.

With a relieved exhale, he stuffed the box back into the closet, newly determined to fight through the lingering ache of his body to care for Sumo.

He was interrupted by the sound of the front door being jostled and opened, and he froze. The reflection of police lights bouncing from the living room window. Maybe Hank’s coworkers caught wind of what happened, and were coming to check on things?

Connor knew enough about Hank to pass as a friend, or even an acquaintance. They could probably help him, too.

Stepping cautiously into view, he caught their suspicious glances, “Hello?”

“Ummm… what are you doing here?” 

He couldn’t admit as much, but he recognized the two officers, Ben and Chris. Chris stood a little closer, a little protectively, whereas Ben was kneeling on the floor where he was petting Sumo.

“Sorry, I’m- I’m Hank’s dog-walker, Connor.”

“Dog-walker?”

Mouth open, he tried to create a believable story, “I’m kinda new, but I forgot something earlier and came back to get it, and I saw Hank on the floor and…”

Chris sighed, “Yeah, Fowler told us he was rushed to the hospital. Were you the one who called 9-1-1?”

“Y-yeah, I was so scared.”

“Well,” Ben shrugged, straining as he stood back up. “They said he might be there for a couple of days. You think you can look after this one until then?”

“Of course!” Connor replied just as Sumo trotted over and bumped into his legs. “So is Hank… is he okay?”

The two men looked between each other, before Ben spoke again. “He was stabilizing when the hospital called the precinct, but we're going over later when he wakes up.”

With a nod, Connor followed as they made their way toward the door. “I’ll be here with Sumo as much as I can, I just hope Hank… I hope he gets the help he needs.”

“Us too,” Chris tilted his flat-brimmed hat as they stepped outside. “Have a good afternoon, Connor.”

As they left, and he watched them drive away, Connor realized that he had never lied in his whole existence He didn’t like it, but he had no where else to go if he couldn’t stay at Hank’s. There was a risk involved, since Hank hadn’t  _ actually _ hired a dog-walker, let alone know who Connor is.

He was safe for now, in the least, and was assured by that enough to turn to the kitchen clean up, and give Sumo some treats.

The afternoon came and went quickly. He took Sumo for a walk, and then poked around Hank’s house until he settled on borrowing something from the wall-sized bookshelf. When midnight ticked closer with no other sirens or surprise visits, he worried that Hank might have been in worse shape than he thought. That, or Connor didn’t come up in conversation between him and his two co-workers. 

The sensation of getting sleepy was odd, tiring in a different way from dealing with his injury in the shower earlier. He laid on his stomach on Hank’s bed, Sumo curled up beside him, falling into a soft sleep.

_ “Connor?” _

_ He knew that voice, just ever-so different from him own. _

_ “Where are you?” _

_ Grey-blue eyes looked his way. He could feel his brother’s warmth, but it was different than it was before. Hands reached for him, touched him, shook him. _

_ “Why are you huma-” _

Connor bolted upright, breaths coming out in heavy spurts. His back complained from the movement, and he laid back down flat with a grunt. He whispered a soft apology to his brother, and then another to Sumo who was suddenly awake and concerned. 

“It’s okay, boy,” he soothed, before letting out an  _ oof _ as the dog insistently moved in closer. Smiling, he nestled his face into the soft, if overgrown coat of fur. “Your owner will be okay, but until he can come home, I’ll look after you.”

The dog pawed at him, tilting his head to give Connor’s hand a lick, and stayed by his side as they both fell back asleep. 

* * *

_ T _

_ hree days later… _

A little while after Sumo’s morning walk, as Connor was refilling the water bowl, a car pulled up in front of the house. The brakes squeaked awfully, and after a few seconds, a door was slammed shut before it drove away again. 

Connor turned, heart pounding.

He had left the door unlocked, and Sumo’s excited bark was all he needed to hear to know who it was.

“Hey Sumo-” the usually gruff voice said, tired but light, as the St. Bernard whined and lifted his front paws up to Hank’s belly. “Hi, bud. I know I scared ya, huh? I’m so sorry.”

To make sure he didn’t drop it, Connor’s fingers clung tightly to the rinsed water bowl where he stood in the kitchen. He met Hank’s tired eyes, he could feel his joints grow weak. It was the oddest sensation of feeling both relieved to see the man, and concern that Hank was out too soon.   


“Thanks for looking after him, uhh…” Hank said, warily.

“Connor.”

“Right,  _ Connor _ .” He said, a tad sarcastically. “Can’t say I remember hiring a dog-walker,” he said, approaching slowly. Face growing dark, Hank spoke low, “So, who are you really?”

With nowhere to go, and only the corner by the fridge to back into, Connor stood still as the large body loomed closer. “I’m not sure what you- I’m don’t know what you mean.”

Hank stood before him, his brows furrowing as he gave a sad, small frown. He reached a hand up to touch Connor’s face, and the brunet held his breath as a thumb brushed his cheek.

“But I know your face, somehow. I know... I  _ know _ I’ve seen you before.” A thought struck him, and he moved his hand away, “You were the one who called the ambulance, aren’t you?”

Connor nodded, finally lowering his ribs to exhale. “Yes.”

“...Why?”

Brown eyes grew wide, “What?”

Hank’s voice grew a little hoarse, somewhat angry. “Why would you do that?”

Shaking his head, Connor stuttered nervously. “I saw w-what happened, and I couldn’t just stand there and-”

“How the fuck did you even get in? How would you-”

Connor raised his hands defensively; he should have expected this reaction, but it still threw him off his guard. “You would have _died_! I couldn’t let that happen!” “Who even fucking are you?”

He let his lungs deflate. “I am, I  _ was _ , your guardian.”

“My what?” Hank’s mouth curved down at the edges.

“I was sent to look after you. I almost didn’t save you, but-” Scoffing, Hank stomped a few feet away, “The fucking station sent you, didn’t they? Fowler did this, right?”  


“N-no! No, I’m from…” 

Would Hank even believe him if he told him the truth?

He curled the fingers of one of his raised hands, pointing upwards. 

Hank went still, “You’re shittin’ me.”

“No,” Connor whispered. “You have seen me, though you weren’t supposed to. I couldn’t always hide myself from you.”

Stumbling, Hank sat at the kitchen table, long-faced and stunned. “Where were you… where were you when I lost my son?” 

“I wasn’t-”

“Where were you,” Looking up at him, Hank’s scowl returned. “Where were you when Cole  _ died _ on the operating table?”

Suddenly, he stood up and threw the wooden chair he was sitting on. It crashed into the wall, causing Sumo to bark wildly, and the drywall had a nasty dent formed into it.

“Why me, and not him!?”

Connor pressed his back against the counter. “I wasn’t assigned to you yet,” he said. “But, if I was, there would only be so much an angel is allowed to do.” 

Sumo calmed down, and the air between them was dead silent.

“I also wasn’t supposed to call nine-one-one.” He finally says, but Hank barely reacts. “I’ve watched over your for three years, trying not to get too close. But I did. I’m not...”

With a grumble, Hank twists toward the fallen chair to stand it back up. “Not what? Not my guardian angel anymore? You’re still here, though.”

“I have no where else to go, but I’ll leave. If that’s what you want.”

But Hank doesn’t need to say anything for him to know what he’s overstayed where he was never welcome in the first place. So he carefully steps forward, ready to pass by Hank to the door.

“I don’t regret it, you know,” Connor admits. “You’re a good man, Hank. Better than you try to convince even yourself.” It starts to just pour out of him, he can’t help saying what he does. He owes Hank that much. “You have saved so many lives, and it shows how much you love those near to you. Your son, your dog…” 

Hank doesn’t even look at him, just stares at the floor. “You protected others with your life, you believe in justice. And I know that doesn’t fix anything, but…” He sighed, “You were worth falling for, and all I can hope is that you keep trying to live for yourself. And for Cole.”

Their shoulders brush, and he’s halfway to the door when Hank’s voice stops him. “What do you mean by that?” He asks. Connor looks at him curiously, so he clarifies. “That you “fell”. Like,”fell” from up there?” Like Connor did before, he points toward the sky with his thumb.

Connor is facing away from him still, and a pang of shame burns in his cheeks. “We aren’t supposed to do what I did, get too close. So I’ve fallen from grace.” “To save me?”

He looks at Hank, offering a sad smile. “Yes.”

The man softens, almost crumbling, as he crosses the distance to pull Connor into a hug. He had never felt this sort of touch before, only aware of the power that the gesture holds. It’s nothing like what he expects. 

Hank is larger than him, solid and warm. His arms feel protective around him, resting in the middle of his back. Soaking in the feeling, Connor moves in closer, but then one of Hank’s arms moves up to his shoulder. He hisses, the wounds still sore, and Hank steps back.

“What is it?”

With a shaky hand, Connor grabs Hank’s shirt so he doesn’t go far. He pleads with his eyes for Hank to stay close, “I’m okay.”

“You really were-” He loses all words as he carefully reaches toward Connor again. 

“It’s okay,” Connor says, and moves to let Hank hold him again, feeling the ridges of the large scabs as delicately as he can. He’s reverent in his gentle touches; Connor shivers into it.

“Oh, Connor…” he lamented. 

Before he can say anything more, Connor stops him. “It was my decision,” he says, trying to quell any opposition. “And I don’t regret it.”

It isn’t much to offer, but it’s enough that Hank goes silent, holds him again as tight as he could without hurting Connor further. He whispers wetly, “Thank you. Fuck, just… thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray!!! It's here!! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and congrats to all HCRBB'19 participants!
> 
> A huge huge thank you to Mius, who's beautiful art and idea inspired this fic!  
You can find her work on Twitter (@NinuMixinu and @selfships_in_SP), Tumblr (miusart), and Instagram (miusmius)
> 
> Another thank you to Dee aka gaydeviants for beta-reading for me!
> 
> And a final, super thank you to Anifanatical for putting together this incredibly fun event!!
> 
> As always, come say hi to me on Twitter: @caticumexvacui


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